I miss the fast

She raced past me with the intensity of a bride-to-be throwing herself into Filene's Basement. She was lean, sculpted, aerodynamic and determined.

She was me circa 2010.

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Yesterday I took my road bike out on an hour-long ride around the city, aiming just to get a cardio workout in before the temperature broke triple digits. I climbed into the foothills, my feet rhythmically pedaling little circles until I dropped down onto the streets that circle the Rose Bowl. One thing to know about the Rose Bowl: It is the church of exercise. Fat or thin, rich or poor, everyone goes to the Rose Bowl to run, ride, skate or, in some cases, jog backwards, dance or even run while lifting barbells.  But that's another story.

I stopped my bike for a moment to adjust one of the cleats on my bike shoe when I heard a familiar sound.

Whap whap whap whap.

I looked up and a young woman I didn't recognize came around the turn, ever-so-slightly grimacing while running a blistering pace, her shoes lightly brushing the asphalt. She was beautiful. And she was running fast, faster than I've done in quite a while.

My stomach twisted for a moment. She was clearly a competitive road racer, and if I'd been standing there only a year earlier (with running shoes instead of hard bike shoes) I might have tried to run behind her just to see if she was running sub-7:00 pace. But it wasn't 2010, and I'm not the person I was in 2010, and it wasn't meant to be.

I'm generally quite happy taking my current hiatus from running hard. I get to run in the hills and on trails at a leisurely pace, and I'm only running 15 miles a week so I get to dedicate more time to my ever-increasing workload (yaaaay). More time with my husband, more time to play golf and work on the many projects at our home. But every so often, I get a little whiff of what it feels like to run fast. My muscles remember those days and experience some kind of unconscious nostalgia, if there is such a thing.

I miss the fast.